


Thank you for Your Service

by BoStarsky



Series: Assorted Kylux [35]
Category: Crash Pad (2017), Logan Lucky (2017), Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Clyde goes to seattle and doesn't understand modern architecture, M/M, So is clyde, Stensland is a disaster, Two idiots try sexting, but internally, hotels are expensive, neither of them can flirt for shit, sending nudes, veterans reuinion, while drunk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-06
Updated: 2019-11-06
Packaged: 2021-01-24 12:41:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,038
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21338404
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BoStarsky/pseuds/BoStarsky
Summary: Clyde is aware of the phenomenon of unsolicited pictures of the risqué sort, mostly because Mellie gets them and complains about it to him. Her rants always end with her stating in no uncertain terms that if Clyde were to become like those men he would be disowned. He tells her not to worry because he doesn’t understand why anyone would send strangers on the internet a picture of their genitals.Until a man called Stensland sends him a picture of his and Clyde's eyes are opened to the world of nudes.
Relationships: Clyde Logan/Stensland (Crash Pad)
Series: Assorted Kylux [35]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/993903
Comments: 28
Kudos: 124





	Thank you for Your Service

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was inspired by a tweet and that's about it.
> 
> Betaed by Groffiction
> 
> Enjoy!

Clyde is aware of the phenomenon of unsolicited pictures of the risqué sort, mostly because Mellie gets them and complains about it to him. Her rants always end with her stating in no uncertain terms that if Clyde were to become like those men he would be disowned. He tells her not to worry because he doesn’t understand why anyone would send strangers on the internet a picture of their genitals. 

He’d also had it figured that women were most often on the receiving end so he’d be safe from that kind of thing. Until he wasn’t. 

On Facebook he has less friends than most, only accepting people he’s at least met. Most of them are married or taken. The person who’s sent him a message waiting for approval from him isn’t someone he’s ever met or even heard of. His profile picture shows a mop of ginger hair and a pale face looking mildly put out at being photographed. He hardly looks dangerous, so Clyde accepts the message. 

It’s the man in the profile picture and he’s a natural ginger. 

Clyde blushes furiously and locks his phone; he’ll just delete it later when he’s not at work. If anyone ever found out someone had sent him nudes he’d never live it down. 

But there’s something about it, he thinks. It’s three in the morning and he’s laying in his bed, in his brand new bedroom, in his brand new house. The wood still smells fresh, the comforting feel of home yet to set in. It’s not big, his house, but it’s big enough. Just a little single storey cabin in the woods because that’s where he feels the safest. Backfiring cars, gunshots, and explosions are few and far between in this area; because Joe Bang lives on the other side of town. So yeah, he feels safe, safe enough to open that message again despite the distant fear that both his siblings are about to burst through the door and catch him looking at it regardless of the many miles separating them. 

Earlier he’d opened it sensing no danger, and closed it just as quickly. Now he’s actually looking at it because he figures there’s no harm in being curious. The man in the picture, Stensland, the name says, is tall, skinny, and smiling awkwardly at the camera while doing a sloppy salute. There’s a flush to his face that Clyde sees at the bar every day; he’s been drinking. There’s a second picture under the first, this one from the back, showing off a pert little behind with a hint of peachy fuzz where his thigh swells into a cheek. In the third and last picture he's laying down in bed, with his pink cock flushed and hard, the rosy head poking out from under his palm where he’s holding it down to his stomach. 

Clyde blushes just as hard as he did earlier, his whole face warming up. Surely Stensland must have sent the photos to the wrong person somehow; maybe he’d been trying to send it to Mellie, or some other poor girl who didn’t ask for it. 

But then he reads the attached message.

**[23:54]: ** _ Thank you for your service. _

It’s followed by one of those winky faces, a kiss, and the American flag. Clyde is no longer sure what exactly this is, only that his own cock is getting hard from looking at it. But, if there’s one thing he won’t do it’s touch himself to pictures not meant for him, no matter how pretty the guy is. 

**[03:19]: ** _ I’m sorry, I think you sent these to the wrong person. _

Clyde types slowly, still not used to his fancy new phone that Mellie got him for his birthday, and sends the message, trying hard not to think about those long legs that go on for miles. He’s willing to bet that the pale skin on the insides of his thighs is baby soft and oh so smooth. 

Eventually he falls asleep to the soothing sound of crickets chirping outside his open window, having managed to ignore his inappropriate erection for now.

The next morning, Clyde checks his phone. He hadn’t expected a reply, but there it is, a little notification on his phone telling him he has a message. It’s another picture. Stensland is in the bed again and the picture is taken over his shoulder, his long back curved so his ass is the center of attention. 

**[11:05]: ** _ no I didn’t _

Clyde doesn’t know what to say. Does Stensland expect him to send a picture back? He can’t do that - he couldn’t possibly take a picture of himself in the nude and send it to a stranger. One thing is for sure, this isn’t helping his morning wood go down. 

Stensland has to have somehow mistaken him for someone else. Or even just seeing long hair in the profile picture he’d probably drunkenly assumed Clyde was a different person. There’s no way anyone would think him attractive enough to send him nudes. Maybe it’s a prank and Stensland is a made up name for a made up person, the pictures lifted from some other poor fool. There has to be an explanation for this that makes sense. 

That explanation escapes him, and it’s not like he can ask for advice. If it’s a hoax it’s embarrassing that he has to ask and if it isn’t he’ll have shown Stensland’s nudes to somebody else which is just plain wrong. The best thing he can do is write it off as a drunken mistake and move on, take his morning wood into the shower and fantasise about anyone or anything other than the slender redhead. 

It doesn’t work; Clyde coming to the thought of long legs and a pert ass, cursing himself in the aftermath. He draws comfort from the fact that Stensland won’t ever know about this. 

—

Clyde isn’t in the habit of travelling a lot, but now that he can afford it without having to worry about other expenses he rises to the occasion when he’s invited to a reunion. The reunion in question is for veterans that served in Iraq, and since he falls under that category he figures it might be nice to go, see some people he hasn’t seen in years. 

Mellie encourages it, so does Jimmy, and everybody else in the know. All Clyde has to do is pack his bag and hope they don’t give him too much grief over his arm at the airport. 

It goes smoother than he’d expected, the TSA whisking him through after a thorough check to make sure he’s not about to blow up. Soon he’s wandering through the airport trying to find out where exactly he’s supposed to be after tracking down his departure gate on one of the big screens. 

Flying isn’t something he’s a big fan of, but he gets by; he's not pleased with being handed out a window seat however, having to cram himself into the limited space with his long legs. “Do you want to switch seats, son?” The old man in the aisle seat asks when everyone is almost settled and the middle seat is yet to be taken. “You look mighty uncomfortable over there.”

“You don’t have to move on my account, but I’d appreciate it.” Clyde shifts, trying to find somewhere to put his legs that isn’t going to leave him stiff and sore. 

They do end up switching seats so Clyde can utilise the aisle to stretch out a little when they’re not rolling the cart around. He’s thankful to avoid sitting at the window seat for the entire six hour flight. Not to mention now that the ice has been broken he gets to have a casual conversation here and there with the old man to lessen the boredom. A nice chat passes the time just as easily as the book he’d brought. 

All in all it’s a bearable flight and Clyde can leave the airport in Seattle no worse for wear, but maybe a little nervous about the reunion. Big groups don’t bother him despite what most people think when they find out about his PTSD; it’s more that he doesn’t know who exactly is going to be there or if he’ll know any of them. It is a big reunion after all, one where they’ve been requested to wear their dress uniforms and come prepared for a three course meal. He’s never been invited to something that fancy before. 

Tonight he’s not planning on doing much, just checking in and going to sleep after he’s laid out his uniform for tomorrow evening. In the lobby alone, he sees an abundance of hoodies and t-shirts emblazoned with squadron mascots, some he knows and served alongside with, and others that’s he’s never seen before. There are a couple of familiar faces though no one he could put a name to, he keeps his head down and checks in, wondering if he should have just stayed home. 

The room he’s given cost way too much for what it is in Clyde’s opinion - just a bed and a bathroom that he could get for a fraction of the price at the lodge in Boone. He reckons what he’s really paying for is the name out on the building and the fancy sheets. It’s only for two nights, he reassures himself. 

Having washed off the funk of airplane travel he finds he’s not tired enough to sleep yet, being a night owl by profession has him on a different rhythm than most. Wandering down the long hallways with the ugly carpeting Clyde lets his feet take him wherever they want to go, roaming around this big, fancy hotel that’s supposed to be modern, but comes off as a failed art project from an elementary school. It feels empty and chaotic at the same time. 

The bar is no better, but it’s still a bar, a familiar environment of sorts, somewhere he can while away an hour or two. It’s not long before he has a cold beer in hand and is settling into an angular chair that was clearly made for the design alone. Outside it’s raining, a light drizzle darkening the pavement and dripping off decorative bushes, across the road is a park. The view is at least one thing he doesn’t dislike. 

“Clyde Logan, as I live and breathe,” a voice calls out, tearing Clyde away from his people watching. It appears the reunion part of this is about to start. Heading right for him in a beeline from the bar is Maggie Olsen. Last time Clyde saw her was in Sykes right before he left on the transport that took his hand. She’s a welcome sight, making him feel less lonely here in the big city. “I was hoping I’d see you here, Sarge.” She smiles, her own beer in hand as she plunks into the chair opposite him. 

“Well, I figured I had to come since I ain’t been nowhere in years.” At least not anywhere he can talk about freely. 

“I see you got an upgrade.” The casual comment comes with a tip of her pint glass indicating his hand. 

Clyde nods. “Yup,” and that’s all he’ll say on that, if anyone knows the VA wouldn’t just give him something this high tech it would be a fellow veteran. Speaking of, “Why you here?” Just looking at her there isn’t anything immediately obvious to give away why she’s no longer on active duty. 

Maggie’s smile drops a little and she tugs at the knee of her trousers to reveal a sliver of her prosthetic leg. “Equipment failure,” she says. “We match.”

Huffing a short laugh, Clyde raises his glass in a toast. 

They sit there through the evening, several more joining them until they’ve amassed a small flock over there by the window. Clyde is glad he came to this after all; it’s nice to see all these friends and squadmates he hasn’t spoken in years and know that they’re getting by in life. And even though he’s not the most talkative person he’s enjoying himself. 

Then he catches a glimpse of ginger hair in the corner of his eye. 

Clyde looks and the world comes to a screeching halt: it’s  _ him.  _ There’s no mistaking it, behind the bar wiping down glasses and laughing with the other bartender is Stensland. Clyde can feel his face growing hot, but he can’t find it in him to look away, too captivated by the way Stensland’s eyes crinkle at the corner when he laughs, his messy hair, the pale skin above the collar of his black shirt. He’s there, and he’s real, and he’s still the most beautiful thing Clyde has ever seen. 

“Earth to Clyde, shut your mouth, you’re letting a draft in,” Maggie teases, tapping him on the shoulder. “Someone you know?” By now she’s drawn the attention of everyone else in their group and Clyde is starting to feel like an animal in a zoo. 

“No,” Clyde shakes his head, finally tearing his eyes away from Stensland, who thankfully hadn't noticed him. Not that Clyde thinks he would, he’s not all that noticeable; and besides, why would Stensland remember someone he sent nudes to while drunk several months ago?

“You need a wingman, Sarge?” One of the guys ask and Clyde feels like he might die from embarrassment. 

“No.” He can’t talk to Stensland, that would be insane, robbing a vault was less stressful. That and he’s still sure those pictures weren’t meant for him, they just couldn’t have been, for Stensland to be both interested in men  _ and _ interested in Clyde is simply too far fetched. 

Clyde chugs the rest of his beer, suddenly feeling the need to get out of here before someone inevitably takes offense to him having a crush on Stensland; who, despite his willowy frame, is unmistakably a man. Pulling out his wallet, he lays down his share of the bill and books it out of there before anyone can stop him. It might make him look like a coward, but so be it, he’d rather run away than humiliate himself by trying to flirt. 

He feels no safer in his room, the knowledge that Stensland works here making him anxious about tomorrow. He’ll just have to keep believing he’d never recognise Clyde. But on the off chance that he does it can’t end well, there’s no way of knowing he’s missing a hand by the picture Mellie put on his Facebook and when Stensland sees that he’ll realise what a mistake he’s made. So, no, he’ll just have to avoid the man for one more day, and then he can check out early on Sunday and find a cafe somewhere to while away the hours in. 

Even though he’s safe in his room where it’s unlikely Stensland is going to show up and torture him with his pretty face, Clyde can’t help feeling uneasy. Stensland doesn’t even know he’s here and that’s how it’s going to stay. 

His previously soothed nerves are back in full force the next afternoon, not even going for a long run had fixed it. At least he didn’t see a single red hair during breakfast, hopefully Stensland’s not working today. 

Clyde keeps that attitude up to when he’s done up his tie and straightened is jacket - the dark blue always did make him look pale - because that’s when it occurs to him the scale of this event. Of course Stensland will be working tonight; it was dumb of him to think he wouldn’t. 

He looks himself over in the mirror, feeling proud that he’s earned the right to wear this uniform. If he can go to war for his country he can handle a single man who once sent him pictures. Pictures he’s gotten off to many,  _ many  _ times. 

This is going to be a disaster. 

By the time he arrives at the event it’s already in full swing, a sea of uniforms congregated in the event hall where a DJ is up on the stage. In some ways Clyde finds the crowd soothing, the odds of him running into Stensland in all of this is unlikely. Before he even has time to worry they’re called into the restaurant for dinner. 

The table he sits at is soon filled up by old friends who greet him with smiles and handshakes; the normality of it all helps him relax again. He’s yet to see Stensland anywhere. 

“So, sarge, want to tell me about that redhead?” Maggie casually inquires, leaning towards him with her elbows on the table. 

“No.”

“Aw, come on, we all knew you were playing for the other team already,” she wheedles, the tablecloth starting to bunch under the force of her leaning. Everyone listening nods. Clyde wonders how they knew. 

“I ain’t got nothing to say.” Trying to discourage Maggie from something she’s set her claws in is about as easy as taking a bone from a starving dog, in that if you do get the bone she’ll make you feel guilty enough to give it back, and then some. This is something he’s willing to risk the guilt for. 

“You really do know him, don’t you?” Does he though? Can seeing someone naked and exchanging a few words be considered as knowing? It’s more like he knows  _ of  _ Stensland than that he knows him; however, he can’t exactly reveal the circumstances of how he became aware of Stensland’s existence without betraying the man’s privacy. He can’t even say for sure that his name actually is Stensland, it could be fake in the same way that he’s not convinced it was the pretty redhead himself that sent those pictures and not a catfish. 

Clyde remains silent, sipping his glass of ice water, while they wait for everyone to get seated, half the table is staring at him. If there’s one thing he’s good at, it’s remaining stoic under pressure. 

And there comes the puppy dog look from Maggie. He can do this, all he has to do is not look at her, right? Which is harder said than done because she keeps nudging his leg under the table. Salvation arrives in a little bowl of green soup that Clyde eats as slowly as he can manage. In the end it’s just a few spoonfuls that really shine a light on why rich people are so skinny. 

All through dinner Maggie keeps wheedling at him between dishes and recruiting everyone else at the table in her wingman operation in spite of Clyde’s protests. By the time he’s finished the last bite of the tiny dessert an entire plan has been laid that he refuses to take any part in. 

“You need to get laid, bro,” says Brad Melvin, the rest of the table nodding in unison. Clyde feels like he’s severely underestimated their determination to reach a goal, or maybe it’s just been long enough since he served that he’s simply forgotten. 

Back in the event hall it’s easier to hide from his group of dedicated wingmen by catching up with as many people as he can. The delicate flute in his hand condenses from the chilled champagne that he doesn’t really like, a drop of moisture gathering on his finger, in front of him an older officer drones on about one thing or another. It’s perfectly mind numbing, enough so that he doesn’t notice the impending disaster before it’s too late. 

The force of the impact nearly knocks him off his feet and it’s sheer luck that he doesn’t drop the glass as he automatically raises his arms to balance the person that tripped into him. The  _ ginger _ , that tripped into him. The tall, skinny, ginger that tripped into him. Clyde is blushing long before Stensland even looks up. 

“Fuck, I’m sorry.” Stensland scrambles to right himself, grabbing onto Clyde’s arms with elegant hands while Clyde is still caught up in the accent he hadn’t been expecting. Naturally he’d just assumed Stensland was American, how wrong he’d been. 

Trying to decide between asking if Stensland is alright and saying that it’s fine Clyde gets his wires crossed and comes out with: “Shit, you’re fine.” Though not technically wrong, it’s inappropriate in their current situation; where’s a fire alarm when you need one? He’d like nothing more than to run away from this whole mess, but with no excuse it would just make this look worse. 

Stensland doesn’t even seem to have heard him, babbling along a mile a minute about how he wasn’t watching where he was going, that he always does this, and at least he wasn’t carrying anything this time, he was on his way to the kitchen to pick up some hors d'oeuvres. Then he looks up and stops so abruptly Clyde gets a little worried. “Jaysus fooking Christ, it’s you!” he exclaims, turning a fetching shade of pink and looking slightly constipated. So much for not being recognised. 

If it wasn’t already obvious he remembers perfectly well who Stensland is he’d try getting away with pretending he doesn’t. As is, all he can do is swallow his nerves and say: “Hello, Stensland.”

“Hi, Clyde,” Stensland replies just as cautiously, behind him Maggie and her buddies are giving him enthusiastic thumbs ups. Knowing them they probably herded Stensland right into him. 

“Thank you for them pictures,” Clyde mumbles at the ground, not knowing what else to say, eyes zeroing in on a loose thread at the middle button hole of Stensland’s waistcoat. 

“You’re welcome,” Stensland squeaks. 

Nodding and chewing on his bottom lip Clyde considers the conversation to be over, turning to slip away into the crowd and out of the room for some fresh air. 

Well, that could have gone better, at least Stensland didn’t seem to have noticed his hand. 

Seattle isn’t peaceful in the same way his own porch is, it’s loud even out here, a different kind of white noise than crickets and raccoons. It’s better than the event hall; out here there’s only a captain in a wheelchair having a smoke with a corporal. Anything is an improvement on being face to face with the cute guy who’s had top billing in all his fantasies for months. He’s offered a cigarette that he politely turns down. 

_ Now what? _

He’ll have to go back inside at some point and face what’s waiting for him. He doesn’t get the chance when Brad pokes his head out the door, spotting Clyde where he’s been watching the traffic light change colours. “Your boy’s looking for you, sarge,” he loudly announces, clearly having enjoyed the offerings of the bar already. 

Before Clyde can tell him to keep it down his phone chimes and he unthinkingly opens the message without looking at who it’s from. 

**[20:10]: ** _ Can we talk? _

It’s from Stensland, a short little question that should be easy to answer, but like always Clyde overthinks it. This has to mean something, right?  _ Can we talk,  _ is almost never a good sign, maybe he noticed the hand and wants to take back what little interaction they had? Maybe he didn’t really mean to send those pictures and wants to tell Clyde he’s straight as an arrow? Or maybe he wants to mock him and make a scene.

It’s Brad that pulls him out of his spiralling thoughts, looking down at Clyde’s phone, he nods in approval, “Nice.” That’s when Clyde realises the last picture Stensland sent him is still there on his screen for all the world to see. 

“Shut up,” he grumbles, elbowing Brad to the side so he can type out a reply.

**[20:13]: ** _ Am outside. _

Barely a minute later Stensland comes tripping out the glass doors and Clyde can’t help but think it’s becoming awfully crowded out here. “Good luck, bro, get some ass,” Brad encourages, offering a fist bump that Clyde awkwardly returns before heading back inside. The smokers soon follow and he’s all alone with the object of his fantasies - and not just the XXX rated ones.

Since first contact he’s been imagining what Stensland would be like, figuring he’d be sweet and a little shy, but with enough guts that he’d send nude pictures to a stranger. Not to mention what he’d be like as a boyfriend, Clyde thinking up perfect dates for them where he’d be charming and confident the whole time, always knowing the right thing to say, instead of the quiet person he is in real life. Compared to Stensland, Clyde knows he’s boring, a drab grey to Stensland’s vibrant orange. 

“Right, why is the talking part of this always so hard?” Stensland starts out, wringing his hands and looking everywhere but at Clyde. He takes a deep breath in a sort of  _ ‘here goes’  _ fashion, “I’ll admit I was a bit drunk when I sent those pictures, I just saw this tweet about sending nudes to veterans and you were tagged in this one picture a friend of mine put up and I thought you were cute so I sent them to you. I promise I’m not in the habit of sending nudes to anyone and I’m sorry for springing it on you like that, which was really rude, and-“

Clyde holds up a hand to stop Stens who looks like he’s a second away from passing out due to lack of air. “It’s alright.” Clearly he’s the one who’ll have to take charge of this train wreck before it goes completely off the rails. “I like them pictures,” he admits, his ears growing hot under the surprised stare Stensland aims at him. 

“You do?”

“I do,” Clyde nods solemnly, feeling like he’s coming out of the closet all over again. He’ll just have to have faith it’ll turn out alright this time too. 

“Would you like a live example?” Stensland speaks very slowly and carefully, sounding out each word as if he’s asking if Clyde wants to steal something as opposed to hook up. 

“I’d like to buy you a drink first.” Clyde likes knowing who he goes to bed with, and if Stensland is anything like he imagined it can’t go wrong. 

Letting out a huge breath of relief, Stensland nods, the tension in his body visibly easing up. Clyde can’t keep the smile off his face, offering his left hand on instinct before he remembers he should have offered his right. He doesn’t get a chance to correct it, Stensland taking hold of the carbon fibre with no hesitation, the mechanism whirring quietly as the fingers close around Stens’ hand. 

As if he couldn’t be more perfect. 

Clyde doubts there’s much Stensland could do or say that would make him any less infatuated, it just doesn’t seem possible. Absently he wishes he had more of a sexual history than a couple of fumbles with fellow queer soldiers and a single one night stand from three years ago. It would make this much easier if he knew what he was doing. Stensland doesn’t seem to be concerned, leading him back into the reunion and straight to the bar where he greets his coworker with a smile. 

The whole time they’re there Clyde can’t stop watching his companion, seeing all these new details he couldn’t glean from the four pictures he’s spent more time looking at than he’d like to admit. Such as Stensland having green eyes, or the faint smattering of freckles on his nose; he couldn’t care less if he looks like a lovesick fool when there’s so much to memorise. 

Around them the world moves on, the DJ playing their songs, and the people slowly getting drunker, laughter and conversation accompanying the music. It’s not unlike Saturday night at the Duck Tape, just scaled to size, and for once he’s not behind the bar. It isn’t often he wants to join in with the crowd, content to watch and keep the peace, but tonight he has other things on his mind. 

Next to him Stensland smiles, sipping his club soda and shining brighter than any star Clyde has ever seen. Hopefully he’s as eager to get out of here as Clyde is, he wants to find out if there are more freckles he couldn’t see in those pictures. 

Finishing off his own beer, Clyde puts the pint glass down in favour of fiddling with the cardboard coaster, though he refrains from picking it apart. That’s one annoyance he has intimate knowledge of - he’s been tempted to bring out the baseball bat they keep behind the bar more than a few times, he often settles for glaring until the offender stops. 

“-then this mean looking lady came in, I could have sworn she was bigger than you even, and she was the pretty one’s girlfriend. I knew she’d kill me for trying to hit on her lovely lady so I turned tail and ran-“ Stensland is rambling about his misfortunes in love and Clyde is barely listening to the story, too charmed by the lilting accent to concentrate on what’s being said. “-I haven’t been back to that bar in two years cause I’m scared I’ll run into them and get my arse kicked,” he finishes, smiling crookedly over the rim of his glass. 

From the sound of it Stensland has led an interesting life, more interesting than Clyde’s anyway; out of the two things he’s done there’s one he can’t talk about, and one that’s obvious by the current setting and traumatised him for life. Other than that the most asked about part of himself is his hand, but what happened there also goes without saying when he’s at a veteran’s reunion. 

“I’m afraid I ain’t got nothing interesting to tell you, I only been three places before this, one of them was a warzone, and the other one boot camp.” There’s nothing that Stensland would want to hear about. 

“Don’t listen to him,” Maggie butts in, emerging from the crowd and slinging an arm over Clyde’s shoulders, he has a suspicions she’s been lurking nearby, waiting for the perfect moment. “Clyde here used to be the life of the party, right boys?” A chorus of ‘ay’ rises from behind her. Clyde just sighs, it’s his own damn fault that this is happening anyway. 

“He wasn’t always this size either, used to be real skinny, but he could drink us all under the table without missing a step,” she smiles proudly. “I remember when I first met him, eighteen years old, fresh out of small town West Virginia, possibly the most innocent thing I ever seen, all long legs and big ears. I was his first Drill Sergeant, you see.” Stensland is listening with rapt attention and Clyde doesn’t understand why, it’s hardly interesting that he looked different when he first signed up. “He grew up to be a fine soldier this one.”

Maggie might not have told any embarrassing tales yet, but Clyde isn’t holding onto much hope. If there’s anyone who has a story to tell about him it’s her. Having pretty much watched him grow up out of his awkward teens until he was deployed on his first tour she knows him as well as any other member of his family, or at least she did, but Clyde hasn’t changed that much over the years.

“You got yourself a good one here, kid. Now get him drunk and drag him onto the dance floor.”  _ And there it is.  _

Much to Clyde’s relief Stensland just laughs, glancing at the dance floor with poorly concealed apprehension. “I think we’ll stay here, thank you. I’d probably end up breaking my leg, or someone else’s leg…” he trails off, eyes glazing slightly. “I’m really not a dancer.”

“That never stopped Clyde,” she chuckles, shifting her weight off her bad leg. “Well, I’ll leave you boys alone so you can go do the tango in private.”

Clyde is sure his face is doing something unattractive, but he’s too warm to really examine it, wishing he could retreat into his jacket like a turtle and stay there for the rest of the evening. The fact that they’ve already been through this bit and agreed on hooking up does little to help; having Maggie point it out is like getting a thumbs up from your mother along with a condom and some lube. It’s excruciating. 

“Well, I think that’s our cue.” Stensland huffs, sliding off his barstool with a semi successful attempt at grace that Clyde quickly forgets all about when Stens steps up between his legs, puts his hands on Clyde’s thighs and leans in to whisper in his ear, “I want to see what you’ve got under that uniform.”

Between Stensland’s warm touch and the soft voice in his ear, Clyde thinks maybe they really do ought to move this along to somewhere more private before he gets clocked for public indecency. Appearances be damned; they can talk later. 

Ignoring the cheers and whistles from Maggie’s squad of drunken ducklings Clyde takes Stensland by the hand with the intention of bringing him back to his overpriced supply closet being passed off as a room. They make it as far as the lift before Stensland starts getting handsy with him. “Did you really keep those pictures?” He asks while feeling his way around Clyde’s backside, squeezing the muscle in a way that has him chubbing up embarrassingly fast. 

“I been looking at them almost every day.” Usually admitting such a thing would make him sound desperate, but right now Clyde reckons his obsession with those pictures might be a good thing for once. When Stensland lets out a pleased hum, he knows he was right. “You’re the prettiest thing I’ve ever seen,” Clyde says, turning Stens around and frog marching him out of the lift in the direction of his room. 

He’s barely gotten them through the door before he’s accosted by a pair of soft lips that are just how he’d imagined and more. It’s a good distraction for before he knows it Stensland is pushing his uniform jacket off his shoulders, pulling back to make sure the sleeve doesn’t catch on his artificial hand. Clyde falls a little bit in love right then and there. His biggest worry about this doesn’t seem to bother Stensland in the least. 

Up until this point Clyde hasn’t been all that fond of wearing a tie, but the way Stensland uses the strip of cloth to pull him into a searing kiss might just convince him to like the darned things. 

With a little bit of manoeuvring that Clyde mostly misses out on due to being distracted, he ends up in the armchair by the little table with a lithe ginger in his lap. Stensland makes quick work of his tie, then the buttons on his shirt, having the same care with the left sleeve as he had with the jacket. Suddenly he pauses, “I’m sorry, I didn’t ask if I could touch.” He looks a little scared, as if he’s expecting Clyde to be mad at him. 

“It’s as much a part of me as anything else, but I can take it off if you prefer.” Clyde focuses his gaze on the divot between Stens’ collarbones, chewing his lip while he waits for the reply. 

“Only if you want to, I don’t mind either way.”

Clyde elects to take it off simply because the skin is chafing a little after wearing it all day and he’d rather not develop a rash that’ll stop him from wearing it at all for a few days. As long as Stensland doesn’t mind it’ll be alright. With his arm put aside on the table their activities resume like it had never happened, Stens drawing him back into a deep kiss and grinding their hips together. 

“How do you want to do this?” Clyde asks when they break for air, Stensland moving on to suck on the lobe of his ear, which feels a lot better than he thought it would. “I ain’t got nothing slick so we’ll have to do without.” He might not have protection either come to think of it. 

But then Stensland rolls his hips again and Clyde is reminded of that pretty, pink cock and it’s perfect size. “Can I suck you off?”

Nodding excitedly, Stensland vacates his lap and gets undressed faster than anything Clyde has ever seen, not that he’s complaining. And there it is, jutting out at an upwards curve. The man attached to said dick seems a little hesitant now that he’s so exposed, blushing brightly where he’s standing in the middle of the floor. 

The chair gives off a creak when Clyde gets out of it in favour of kneeling on the floor. Stensland’s cock jumps when he touches it, a soft cry of surprise emerging from the ginger when he takes it all into his mouth in one go. Soon he finds his rhythm, long fingers tangling in his hair to help guide him to what Stensland likes best. 

Every sound Clyde draws out is like music to his ears, the heady taste and warm weight on his tongue has him hard in his trousers before he’s even touched himself. Like this, Stensland’s accent is thicker, curses rolling off his tongue when Clyde swallows around the head. This is everything he could have wanted and more. 

For months he’s been looking at a picture of this cock and wishing he could suck it, feel the velvety skin on his tongue. He didn’t think it would ever happen, least of all like this. And to think it might have happened sooner if he’d been brave enough to send another message. He could have had Stensland fucking his mouth weeks ago, and isn’t that a shame. But now it’s finally happening. 

Relaxing as best as he can, he lets Stensland into his throat, his chubby cock barely reaching that far. Clyde’s own hand wanders down to touch himself through his trousers, stroking along the length of his cock where it’s trapped against his thigh. When that isn’t enough he wrangles his trousers open and pulls his cock out, properly taking himself in hand. 

Above him Stensland moans loudly, fingers tightening in Clyde’s hair prompting him to look up. The angle is awkward but even from down here he can see those green eyes dark with lust drawing him into their depths as Stens’ cock jerks in his mouth, spilling cum down his throat. It’s perfect the way his face twists in pleasure when he comes.

Even though he tries to swallow it all some escapes his mouth, dribbling down his chin, forcing Clyde to let go of himself to wipe it off lest it drip on his trousers. It’s bad enough that he’s still wearing part of his uniform, no need to stain it as well. He’s quickly drawn back to the matter at hand by a drawn out,  _ “Foooooock,”  _ from Stensland as he pulls back, flopping bonelessly onto the bed for a moment. He makes another loud noise of approval before propping himself up on his elbows to look down at where Clyde is still kneeling on the floor. “I don’t understand how you’re real,” he breathes. 

With a bashful smile on his face, like he isn’t sitting here defiling his uniform with his cock out and cum on his chin, Clyde lets himself lean back on his arse to get his trousers and shoes off. As soon as he’s free of any and all fabrics he gets to his feet and onto the bed so he can have his turn at being the straddler and Stensland the straddled. Sitting like this gives him a mighty fine view of a lean chest and a pair of pink nipples that look so much perkier in real life

Stensland breaks the charged silence: “I can’t suck cock, but I can do almost anything else.”

Hearing that makes Clyde really wish they had some sort of lube, but since he’s not about to put the perfumed hand lotion in the bathroom anywhere near his genitals he’ll have to make due. He suspects they’re about to have an awkward conversation. 

Or not.

Because instead of talking about it and possibly killing the mood Stensland pulls him down into a hungry kiss and rolls them over. With a thigh pressed against him Clyde’s body takes over for his brain, hips pressing up to get some much needed friction. Once Stensland’s hand gets involved he feels like he’s been put on the fast track after all the build up. 

Between the lips now making their way down his neck and the firm grip on his cock Clyde doubts he’ll last much longer. A pass of Stensland’s thumb over the head of his cock draws out a soft moan, white noise filling his head as each pass brings him closer to the edge. What finally tips him over is the sudden pressure of a bite near his shoulder, a slight sting blooming under his skin that he’s too blissed out to pay any attention to. He spills between them with a cracked groan, hips twitching with the aftershocks. 

“Oh lord,” Clyde whispers, slumping back on the bed, next to him Stensland laughs awkwardly. 

“Does it live up to the pictures?” Attention drawn Clyde looks his fill, especially liking the soft tummy and the wide, bony hips. 

“Yup.” 

It’s clear that Stensland never expected anything to come from sending those nudes either, but here they are, sweaty and satisfied. And there he goes, leaning over to kiss Stens just because he can. 

—

Clyde has barely stepped off the plane before his phone dings and he nearly has a heart attack next to the gate when he sees the picture. In it is Stensland, but instead of his peachy little butt, it’s Clyde’s. Stens must have taken it before he woke up since he has no memory of any selfies being taken with his own behind. 

**[17:03]: ** _ I can’t wait to eat this next time. _

Clyde figures it’s about time he made one of those pass codes for his phone. 

****   
  
  
  
  
  



End file.
